


All By Myself

by SPowell



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: AU, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPowell/pseuds/SPowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ken Hutchinson is a pop star. Dave Starsky is a journalist assigned to his tour. Attraction ensues.</p><p>Disclaimer: Starsky and Hutch belongs to William Blinn and Spelling-Goldberg Productions. This work is for entertainment purposes only; I make no money off this endeavor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All By Myself

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate Universe  
> Songs: “Bridge Over Troubled Water” co-written by Paul Simon and Rory Emerald, performed by Simon and Garfunkel, “All By Myself” written and performed by Eric Carmen.

 

 

 

_When you’re weary_

_Feeling small_

_When tears are in your eyes_

_I will dry them all_

Starsky watched the blond man at the piano with a fascination that had become familiar to him over the past two weeks. From the bright blond hair shining in the spot lights, to the slender fingers stroking the piano keys like a lover, down to the long, long legs shifting over the pedals, he was absolutely beautiful.

Starsky had been rocked to his core the first time he’d met Kenneth Hutchinson. It had been many years since the mere sight of a man had made him rethink his decision to remain strictly heterosexual. Rubbing a hand over his face, he listened to Hutch’s soft voice get stronger as the emotion of the song carried him away.

_I’m on your side_

_Oh—when times get rough_

_And pain is all around_

_Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down_

Hell, who was Starsky kidding? Even when engaged to Terri, God rest her soul, he was hiding in a closet that was virtually transparent to those who really knew him. What was it Huggy had rolled his eyes and said when he’d first met Terri? That he’d picked a girlfriend who, no offense to Terri, physically resembled a young boy? Starsky shook his head at the memory, gaining the attention of his assistant, Melanie. He gave an apologetic smile to signify he hadn’t been trying to relay a problem, and the girl turned her attention back to the performance.

He sighed. He hadn’t been particularly excited about this assignment when his editor had given it to him--shadow the heretofore reclusive pop star on his two week tour, creating a photo spread and interview for the magazine. It was exciting to get the exclusive, but Starsky’s immediate attraction to the man had made the trip nothing short of torture.

_Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down_

“I’d like to lay you down,” Starsky muttered, embarrassingly hard in his jeans. He signaled his assistant to take a few more pictures and wrap things up.

As he watched Hutch’s hands move over the piano keys, he berated himself for becoming so friendly with the celebrity. It was difficult not to like Hutchinson—somehow he’d avoided the trappings of the luxurious life he led, even after a nasty public divorce that threatened to send his career down the toilet. Starsky had seen no indication of the drugs, alcohol abuse, or out-of-control sexual behavior that permeated so much of the business. Hutchinson appeared to be clean; hell, he’d even witnessed the man meditating, although the memory of the nearly naked blond sitting in the lotus position out on the hotel terrace did nothing to relieve Starsky of his stiff cock.

Hutchinson’s divorce from the vindictive actress he’d been married to for two years had been what spawned the singer’s permission for the exposé Starsky had been working on the past two weeks. Fiercely private, the entertainer had been beaten down by the incessant nagging of his over-bearing publicist, who insisted that the only way to refute Vanessa Jameson’s poisonous slander was to show fans what Hutch was really like.

As Hutch reached the climax of the song, goose bumps broke out all over Starsky’s body, and he bit his lip. For a brief moment, Hutch’s eyes met Starsky’s, and Starsky was lost.

_Oh------_

_if you need a friend,_

_I’m sail-ing right be-hind—_

_Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind,_

_Like a bridge ov-er trou-oubled water…I will ease your mind_

Besides the obvious attraction Starsky felt, he couldn’t help but like the down-to-earth Minnesotan who played and sang because he loved it and seemed to have a natural ability to modestly discount the fawning of thousands of adoring fans. He’d seen the star escort various women to dinner, treating each of them with kindness and chivalry that never failed to impress his date and everyone who witnessed it. He’d seen him stop what he was doing on the busiest of days to sign autographs and chat with the most inconsequential of people in his entourage. And he’d seen him drop an important appearance in order to make time for a visit to the pediatric cancer unit at a local hospital. At first, with the cynicism the business had instilled in Starsky over the years, he’d thought these displays on Hutch’s part had been shrewdly scripted in order to bolster the man’s flagging image, but it only took a couple of days for him to see otherwise. Basically quiet in nature, Hutchinson showed his backbone when it came to something he believed in, and what he believed in ultimately proved to be what was right and good.

Starsky shook his head—if he wasn’t careful, his story on Ken Hutchinson was going to make the man sound like something between a prince and a super hero.

The performance began to wrap up, and Starsky and his assistant made their way out the back of the auditorium, determined to beat the crowds and get back to the hotel. He had days of work ahead of him putting his notes together, listening to his taped interviews, writing up his story, and choosing photos. Starsky was bone-tired. He didn’t know how Hutchinson—Hutch to his friends—kept up the pace. He fought to keep his eyes open as he maneuvered through the streets of New York, the final city in the two week tour, and found a parking space in front of the posh hotel where he’d kept a room the last two nights directly across the hall from Hutch. That was another thing—it would be understandable if Hutchinson had indulged with a female or two during his tour, even if he was too honorable to take advantage of the groupies who constantly offered themselves. But Starsky had never seen him admit anyone to his suite. He was beginning to think the man was a monk.

Once inside his spacious hotel room, Starsky quickly finished packing his things. He would see Hutch one more time when the piece was completed and ready to publish, to get the entertainer’s final approval. He had no worries that he would get it—Starsky had nothing but stellar things to write about him, and he was good at what he did. If Hutch didn’t come out smelling like a rose, then it simply wasn’t possible. The only thing Hutch had been adamant about was that Starsky was not to slander Vanessa in any way. Starsky knew this wasn’t because the singer knew that to speak poorly of his ex would only make him look bad; it was because Hutch’s strong moral principles wouldn’t allow it, even if the woman hadn’t given him the same courtesy. This was yet another thing that drew Starsky to him.

Starsky had sent his assistant on to the airport to make sure their flight to LA was on schedule. He could hear the arrival of Hutch and his entourage as they made their way down the hall, the entire floor of the hotel having been reserved for them. He stuffed the last few pieces of clothing in his suitcase and looked around.

A rap at the door interrupted him, and he called for whoever it was to come in. Hutch’s publicist, a thin black man with the dubious moniker of Shag Simpson, stepped inside, shutting the door.

“I see you’re on your way out,” he said, looking around at the packed bags.

“Yep. I’ve gotten everything I need. How’s Hutch doing?”

“He’s tired and ready to wind down. I sent him to his room with strict orders to relax and enjoy himself.”

“Good,” Starsky said, closing his bag. “He deserves it. I’ll meet with you two in a coupla weeks with the finished product. We’ve gotten some really good stuff.” He fumbled with the inner pockets of his jacket, making sure the night’s rolls of film were safely tucked away. All of the equipment had gone to the airport with Melanie.

“Good deal. We’ll look forward to seeing it,” Shag said, moving forward to shake Starsky’s hand. “And I hope you’ll keep in touch. Hutch really likes you, and the man could use a friend.”

Starsky looked at him curiously. “He’s got you, doesn’t he?”

Shag smiled. “Of course, but between tours I have my wife and kids. I really don’t see him too often.” He turned and walked out with a wave of his hand.

Starsky stood deep in thought. It had been inevitable that he and Hutchinson become close. They’d spent almost every waking moment of the past two weeks together, and the star’s unguarded, friendly demeanor had made it easy to like him. Surprisingly, Starsky had been told by several people in Hutch’s inner circle that the man wasn’t naturally as open as he was with Starsky. Evidently, there was something about him that the singer trusted and liked. This knowledge filled Starsky with warmth, and he wondered if it would really be possible for the two of them to build on their friendship. Part of him wanted that very much, but there was another part of him---the bit that yearned for more than friendship—that shied away from it. He’d had enough hurt in his life.

With a sigh, he reached for the phone and called for a bellman, then stacked his bags outside the room. Crossing the hall, he lightly tapped on the door to Hutch’s suite.

Hutch’s personal assistant, a no-nonsense woman in her mid-fifties by the name of Carla, opened the door with a tired smile. “I guess you’ll be heading out,” she said.

“Yep. I stopped in to tell him goodbye,” Starsky replied.

“Well, I’m on my way home. He’s in the shower. It’s been nice meeting you, Dave.”

“Same to you, Carla.” He gave the woman a brief hug. “So you won’t be staying one last night?” he asked as she picked up her purse.

“Nope. Hutch insisted that those of us with families go ahead and leave. Only some of the security guys will stay the night here with him. Their flight’s tomorrow afternoon.” She walked past him, and Starsky took a seat to wait for Hutch, who soon appeared wrapped in a white hotel bathrobe.

“This is it, huh?” he asked in his low, soft voice. He took a seat on the plush chair across from Starsky’s and began toweling his damp hair. His robe slipped open a bit, revealing long, tanned legs. Starsky tried not to stare, but it was impossible.

“Yep, this is it. I wanted to tell you I’ve enjoyed this assignment more than I thought I would.” With difficulty, Starsky pulled his eyes away from what he could see of Hutch’s inner thighs and focused on the face emerging from the towel. Eyes as blue and clear as any Starsky had ever looked into latched onto his, and he felt his heart flip.

 _Down boy,_ he chastised himself.

“I’ll miss you,” Hutch told him sincerely, and Starsky felt his throat tighten. _Shit! Why couldn’t this guy be a bastard?_

 He grinned. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll be calling you to look at the finished product.”

Hutch set his towel down and sat forward, his hands dangling between his knees. Starsky tried not to think about what else dangled there. _Fuck! Ten years without men, Starsky, and now you can’t get your mind outta the homosexual gutter._ He reminded himself yet again that the man was straight.

Reaching out his hand, he shook Hutch’s, determinedly disregarding the tingling sensation that ran up his arm at the casual contact. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “This tour’s exhausted me, so I know you’re about to fall over.”

Hutch smiled his disarming smile. He had what Starsky thought of as a ‘pretty mouth’ for a man. Looking at it made Starsky want to nibble the bottom lip.

“Don’t worry. I hold a tight rein on myself during tours. Now I can let myself go a bit. In fact, I’ve got someone coming up to give me a massage.”

Starsky stood. “Terrific! Someone from the hotel?” He couldn’t help the niggling worry that assaulted him. Should the singer be alone in his room with a stranger?

“No,” Hutch shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m too tight-laced for that. This is someone who works on my back every now and then.”

“Oh,” Starsky said with relief. He knew Hutch suffered from a bad back, along with migraines, and he was glad he had someone special to relieve the pain. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He headed for the door.

“Oh, and Starsky?” Hutch said. He’d fallen into calling him by his last name early on, and it had stuck.

“Yeah?” Starsky turned to look at him.

“Thanks for being so…well. Easy to work with,” Hutch said with a shrug.

Starsky grinned. “No problem. Same to you---you’re not what I’d call a typical entertainer.”

Hutch ducked his head with what Starsky thought was an endearing blush. On impulse, Starsky crossed the room and gave him a hug, which Hutch immediately reciprocated. The feel of their bodies pressed together overwhelmed Starsky’s senses, and he had to fight hard not to bury his face in Hutch’s damp neck. With effort, he forced himself to let go and take a step back. Hutch smiled at him softly, and Starsky left the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

When the elevator doors opened, a tall man in his late twenties stepped off, a bag slung over his shoulder. He was good-looking in a Mediterranean sort of way, with well-defined arm muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of his tight T-shirt. Starsky smiled at him and the man smiled back, heading down the hall. As Starsky stepped onto the elevator, he turned and watched the man stop at Hutch’s room, knocking quietly. The door opened, and he slipped inside.

 _So that’s the guy giving Hutch’s massage,_ Starsky thought slightly enviously. He wasn’t sure if he was envious of the man or of Hutch. A massage would feel really good about now, but how much better would it feel to run oiled hands up and down Hutch’s naked body? He swallowed, mouth suddenly drier than sand.

Once in the lobby, he settled with the front desk and headed out into the cool summer night. The bellman waited outside the front doors with his bags, and Starsky popped open the trunk of the rental car so he could load them. As he quickly took inventory of his things, he suddenly realized that he’d left one of his cameras in Hutch’s room earlier that day when he’d taken some casual shots of the singer lounging on the balcony. They’d gotten into a long conversation about books, and Starsky had left it on a table.

“Fuck,” he muttered, glancing at his watch and heading back into the hotel at a brisk pace. There was no way he could go without that camera. If he was lucky, he could grab it and still get to the airport on time. He headed for the elevators at a jog, sighing in relief when one immediately opened for him.

Nervously tapping his fingers on his thighs, Starsky watched the numbers climb until they hit the top and the doors slid open.

Reaching Hutch’s suite, no one answered to his knock, so Starsky tried the door knob and found it unlocked, immediately heading for the table in the corner of the sitting room. The double doors to the bedroom area were cracked, and Starsky could hear faint murmuring from within where Hutch was no doubt receiving his well-deserved massage.

Not finding the camera where he’d thought it would be, Starsky impatiently hunted around until he spotted it hanging on the hall tree by the door. Retrieving it with relief, he turned to go, a low moan from the bedroom halting him in his tracks. Drawn like a magnet to steel, he took a step toward the cracked door, and then another until he was flush against it and peering in.

Hutch lay face-down on the large bed, completely nude. Starsky drew in a breath at the sight of his tanned torso, long legs and absolutely delectable ass. He had to bite his lip to keep himself quiet. He was about to turn to leave when the other man moved into view, his back to the door. To Starsky’s surprise, he, too, was completely nude. He watched in transfixed fascination as the darker man leaned down and moved his hands over Hutch’s body, working the muscles beneath the skin, eliciting pornographic moans from the mouth Starsky had been unable to get off his mind for the past two weeks.

Starsky started to take a step back when Hutch rolled over and he got a glimpse of curls of blond hair and a large, stiff cock before the masseur took hold of it with oily hands, slicking it with practiced strokes. Again, that _sound_ came from Hutch’s throat, making Starsky unconsciously reach for his own groin. He watched in dry-mouthed disbelief as the man straddled Hutch’s legs and slowly lowered himself onto the blond’s erection. Starsky had to stifle his own moan of yearning as he watched the two men slowly begin to fuck.

His head reeling, he stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet. A rustling from inside the bedroom told him he’d been heard.

“Who’s there?” Hutch called, his voice hoarse in a way that made Starsky’s cock even stiffer.

“It’s just me,” Starsky tried to sound casual, stepping even farther away from the door. “I came for my camera. Gotta run—I’ll miss my flight.” He bolted for the door and exited out into the hall, his breathing erratic and the image of what he’d just witnessed emblazoned across his brain, probably for all eternity.

Hurrying to the elevator, he made his way back down to the lobby in a fog, unable to shake the regret that assaulted him.

All this time, Hutchinson had been as gay as he was.

***

Once in his own apartment for the first time in two weeks, Starsky unpacked his clothes before throwing himself on the bed and staring at the ceiling. The light on the answering machine flashed in the darkness, and he reached over and hit the button.

“David, I hope everything went well,” Rosey’s voice whispered huskily. “God, I’ve missed you. Call me when you get in.”

There were a couple of other calls, one from a solicitor and one from his mother, whom he’d visited in New York since then. He erased them all and sighed, once again staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow he’d have to discipline himself to begin the lengthy writing process, but tonight he could rest. He toed out of his shoes and kicked them off the bed, thinking of Rosey Malone.

They had begun a romance several weeks ago when she’d arrived in town with her ailing father, who was seeing a specialist in town concerning his heart condition. Starsky had been attracted to her right away when they’d met on the jogging trail that encircled the park across from his apartment. _God,_ Starsky thought when the image of Rosey’s form appeared before his eyes. _Tits and hips almost nonexistent. What will Huggy say when he meets her? Another boy substitute, no doubt. Shit, hadn’t he ever dated a curvaceous woman in his life?_

Starsky admitted to himself that in the past, when he’d gone for guys, they had always been smooth-skinned, boyish sorts. _Which is why Hutch caught my eye immediately,_ he mused. All that blond hair, tanned good looks….he squeezed his eyes shut and clamped down on the image of Hutch and that masseur in the bedroom of his hotel suite getting hot and nasty. Too late to ward off his burgeoning hard-on, he reached into his pants and quickly stroked himself over the edge, the image of Hutch naked on that bed making it the fastest jerk off in history.

Lying there panting in the darkness with streaks of ejaculate on his shirt, Starsky wondered what he would have done had he known that Hutch was bi-sexual. Would he have gone for it? Made a move on him? Even though he was dating Rosey? _Fuck, yeah,_ he thought before rolling over and going to sleep, still in his clothes.

***

The following day Starsky spent holed up in his apartment, speaking to no one except for a brief call to Rosey, promising to get with her for a while the following evening. He worked well into the night before collapsing on the couch and then awakening around ten the next day and picking up where he left off. When his phone rang, he let the machine pick up, his mind on the interview transcript he was typing up.

Recognizing the voice, Starsky got up and skirted the sofa, snatching the phone up with the caller in mid-sentence. “Hey, I’m here. Just screening calls while I work on the interviews.”

“Starsky—is this a bad time?” The sound of Hutch’s voice had already sent Starsky’s pulse racing, but now he found he had to sit down in order to stop his legs from shaking. The effect the man had on him was unbelievable. He grasped his cock through his shorts and squeezed.

“No, no. I’m just going through the interviews and trying to put them into a cohesive unit. What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Hutch cleared his throat. “Um, this is really short notice, but could you possibly have lunch with me this afternoon?”

“You’re here in LA?” Starsky was surprised. Although he knew the singer owned a home there, he’d been under the impression that he was going abroad for an extended rest before embarking on another tour.

“Yes. I changed my mind about going abroad. I’m too exhausted. Is lunch good for you?”

“Sure, sure, I can do that. Where would you like to meet?”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible for me to have an intimate lunch of any sort in public. Would you mind coming to my place? I can send my driver for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Starsky assured him. “I’ll drive there.”

“Terrific.” Hutch gave him directions and told him the man at the gate would be expecting him. “We’ll have a casual lunch by the pool. Bring your swim trunks.”

Starsky agreed and hung up. Glancing at his crotch, he murmured, “Down, boy. This is just lunch.” The words “intimate lunch” hadn’t escaped him, although he knew Hutch meant ‘private.’ He headed for the bedroom to go through his clothes, unable to shake the excited edge he felt at the invitation.

***

Hutch dismissed his cook after she prepared the cold lunch of sliced pita, chunks of feta cheese, plump Greek olives, hummus, and fruit. He wore only his light blue swim trunks, having already swum his regular routine of laps that morning. He wasn’t sure exactly what had prompted him to invite Dave Starsky over, but he very much looked forward to seeing him.

The California sun beat down on his shoulders, and he reached for the sun block. As he applied it, a sound caused him to turn, breath catching in his throat at the sight of David Starsky crossing the veranda in white shorts and a blue tank top. Unable to help himself, Hutch grinned.

“Hey! Didn’t hear your car because of the music,” Hutch greeted him, indicating with a wave his sound system that played a soft rock radio station.

“Counting how many times they play your latest hit?” Starsky teased, and Hutch laughed.

“Yeah, you know me. So into myself and all the fame.” They shared a smile. He adjusted his sun glasses, the glare off the Olympic-size pool relentless at that time of day. Starsky’s grin showed every one of his white teeth, and Hutch couldn’t help responding to it every time with a smile of his own. The darker man also wore mirrored sunglasses, and Hutch thought they lent an even sexier vibe to his already over-the-top physical magnetism. He mentally berated himself. He’d known from day one that Starsky was straight—he’d had him investigated. He even had a current female lover. It was no use to indulge in fantasies about the man, but still he’d given in to his need to have him around and invited him over.

He took a breath and indicated the spread of food in the shade. “You want to eat first or swim?”

“Why don’t I help you with that.” Starsky came forward, taking the tube of lotion out of Hutch’s hand. “You can’t reach your back, and I’ll bet that fair skin of yours burns if you don’t keep something on it. Not that you don’t have a great tan.”

A shiver ran up Hutch’s spine, and he had to remind himself that Starsky was only being his friendly self—he was not flirting with him.

“Sure,” Hutch leaned forward on the chair and tried to breathe normally as Starsky spread lotion over his back and shoulders with hands that he wished would roam elsewhere on his body. Too soon, the contact was over, and Hutch stood up to see Starsky shedding his tank top and shorts, revealing a black Speedo that hugged his scrumptious ass in a way that should be illegal. Hutch began to tremble and clenched his fists.

“It’s damn hot out here,” Starsky said. “Mind if I swim a lap or two before we eat?”

“Please…” Hutch indicated the water. He forced himself not to stare as his guest dove off the diving board and did the butterfly stroke down the length of the pool and back. Instead he moved to the cabana and took two beers out of the refrigerator. He was so damned tired. Coming off the rush of a tour always left him drained, but this time it was worse. He was starting to wonder if he was getting too old for the lifestyle. He looked back at the pool and the virile man cutting his way through the water with sure strokes, desire kindling in his loins. He felt a pang of guilt that he was having these thoughts when he was still very much in a relationship. He firmly told himself to behave. But when Starsky joined him a moment later, wet and slick, Hutch was sporting a hard-on that threatened to slice its way out of his bathing shorts.

“You’re a good swimmer,” he said, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. They took their beers and moved to the table, Hutch making sure he kept his crotch out of Starsky’s line of sight until he could safely hide it beneath the table.

“Thanks. I used to do a lot of swimming in the ocean back home growing up.” Starsky took several long swallows of beer. “It could get a little rough. You had to be a good swimmer not to drown.” He put his beer down. “I was a little surprised when you invited me out here,” he said, spreading some hummus on a piece of pita.

“I kind of thought we were becoming friends. I didn’t want to lose that,” Hutch said, hoping he hadn’t been wrong. Years in the spotlight hadn’t done much for his ability to garner and maintain friendships. His hands were beginning to sweat, and he wiped them on a napkin. “We didn’t have much of a chance to just hang out when I was on tour, and to be honest, I’m a little starved for human company. All those people who are constantly around me don’t count. They don’t treat me like a normal person the way you do.”

A little too perceptively, Starsky asked, “Is that the only reason you asked me here today?” He popped the pita into his mouth and chewed.

Hutch looked down at the table. “I admit I’m a little embarrassed about what happened at the hotel.”

“I thought as much.” Starsky picked up his beer again.  “You don’t have to be. I’m sorry I walked in like that unannounced. The door was unlocked, and I was in a hurry. I’d left my camera.”

Hutch stared at his plate, unwilling to look up.

“Hey.” Starsky put a hand out and covered Hutch’s where it rested on the table. Hutch looked up, latching onto deep blue eyes surrounded by lush, dark lashes. Starsky’s gaze said _trust me_. “It’s none of my, or anyone else’s, business.” Hutch nodded and smiled, relieved.

“Aren’t you gonna eat anything?” Starsky asked after a few minutes went by without Hutch touching his food.

“I don’t have much of an appetite,” Hutch admitted. 

“You need to keep up your strength,” Starsky admonished quietly. Hutch picked up an olive and popped it into his mouth, biting the flesh off the pit before spitting it out into his napkin. Starsky scooted the cheese closer to him, and, with a sigh, Hutch ate a chunk of it.

Conversation turned to lighter things, and the afternoon progressed pleasantly. After lunch they lounged at the pool, swam, and later watched a movie on a huge TV screen in the den before Starsky swore he had to leave or he’d never get his piece on Hutch completed by the deadline.

“As it is, I’m going to have to cancel on a date. She’s going to be really pissed.”

“I’m sorry I ruined your plans,” Hutch said. “We could’ve done this another time.”

Starsky shook his head. “It’s okay. I wanted to come.”

Hutch shook his hand before he left, unable to ignore the tingling sensation that ran through him every time he came into physical contact with Starsky. On impulse, he gave him a quick hug, the solid feel of his muscular body pressed against him too close to perfection for Hutch to be able to stand it for more than a brief moment. He’d had many fantasies about the embrace they had shared in the hotel room. He'd already been fully aroused by it when Nik started his massage.

“I didn’t just invite you over because of yesterday,” Hutch assured him as Starsky stepped out onto the front porch. “I really do want to be friends.”

“I believe you,” Starsky said, smiling. With a wave, he left.

***

Once at home again, Starsky called Rosey. He heard the hurt in her voice, and, against his better judgment, told her to drop by later in the evening when he’d gotten some work done.

Hanging up, he showered, dressed in a pair of sweat pants, and once again immersed himself in the interviews.

Before he knew it, Rosey knocked on the door. She wore a clinging top and tight jeans that accentuated her slim form. She never wore a bra—she really didn’t need one—and he felt her hard nipples pressing against his chest when they embraced. He thought of Hutch and immediately became hard.

“Oh, David, it’s been too long,” Rosey whimpered, her thigh brushing against his erection. “I see you’ve missed me, too. Take me to bed, please.” She pulled her top off, revealing her small breasts, her long hair falling over her slim shoulders. Starsky felt himself losing interest.

“You sure you don’t want to sit a while first? Maybe have a drink?”

“God, no! I’ve been thinking about you for two weeks! We can talk later.”

Rosey stripped off her jeans and the tiny bikini briefs she wore underneath. Starsky kissed her again, Hutch’s face rising behind his closed eyes. His cock stirred, and he stepped out of his sweats, leading Rosey to the bedroom. His thoughts didn’t leave Ken Hutchinson.

***

Loud and obnoxious knocking woke Starsky from a deep sleep. He opened one eye and looked at the clock, appalled to see it was only eight AM. He and Rosey hadn’t gone to sleep until after two. He was glad that she had had to work that day and was therefore out of the apartment; his interest in her was quickly waning, and he didn’t relish the breakup that was coming. He berated himself for taking her to bed—that was only going to make things worse.

“Keep your shorts on!” he called, pulling on a pair of jeans before heading to the door.

When he opened it, he was surprised to find Shag Simpson standing on his front porch.

“Shag! You’re the last person I expected.” Starsky stepped back. “Come on in.”

Shag stepped into the apartment, giving it a cursory look before settling his gaze on Starsky. “I’ll get right to the point. Hutch told me what you…witnessed in his hotel room. I’m very concerned about what you plan to do with this information.”

“Huh?” Starsky scratched his head, knowing he must appear scruffy, bedraggled, and half asleep. He turned toward the kitchen and the coffee maker. “Listen, I just woke up. Can you be a little more precise?” He put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes wearily before taking the coffee and filters out the cabinet.

Shag frowned. “Hutch had company that night after the final concert. His…lover. You’re the press---if this gets out, it’ll ruin him.”

“I assured Hutch I wouldn’t say anything.” Starsky measured coffee into the coffee maker. “So why are you here?”

“I know how the press works, and Hutch can be naïve. He trusts you, but I know what a huge story this is. I’m his publicist—it’s my job to protect his private life from the vultures in the press.”

Starsky turned to him, his eyes flashing. “You don’t have to worry! I’m not putting it in there. So Hutch’s gay, or bi-sexual, or whatever. Who gives a shit?”

“The whole world gives a shit! They’d love this piece of news.” Shag crossed his arms. “He’s always been so careful. I don’t know how this happened! I’ve told him and told him to be careful.”

“The man was exhausted! Cut him a break. He forgot to lock the door, and I needed my camera. Believe me or don’t, but I’m not gonna leak this.”

“Just to be sure, we want to offer you something for your silence.” Shag took a check out of his pocket.

“Dammit! Are you fucking _deaf_? I said I won’t let it out! I don’t want his money!” Starsky’s eyes flashed with anger, and Shag took a cautious step back. “Get the hell outta my apartment!” Starsky ordered, pointing toward the door.

Shag held out the check, and Starsky took it, ripping it into pieces without even looking at it. “My word is good. Get out!”

He watched Shag leave and, taking hold of the coffee pot, slung it across the room and into the wall, shattering it to pieces.

 ***

Starsky’s editor, Harold Dobey, was extremely happy with the issue devoted to Ken Hutchinson. He sat at his desk, a splotch of color in the otherwise dull room, a gold medallion hanging in the V of his silk shirt. “This is going to sell like hot cakes,” he told Starsky. “God, there’s more information here than I ever dreamed you’d get. This man has been tighter than a clam over the years. I can’t believe he’s risen to the heights he has with so little written about him.”

“I think that’s worked in his favor,” Starsky said, gathering his things together. “He’s been a mystery. If his ex hadn’t started her smear campaign, it would have gone on working for him. I think he’ll be pleased with this.”

“When are you showing it to him?” Dobey placed his elbows on his desk and clasped his pudgy hands together, gold rings catching the light from large window overlooking downtown L.A.

“This afternoon. Once I have his okay, I’ll call you.”

“Terrific.” Dobey smiled. “Good work. Why don’t you take a couple weeks off before your next assignment?”

Starsky grinned back at him. “Sounds terrific. I need it.” He left Dobey’s office, quickly exiting the building that housed _Pulse_ magazine without spending any time at his own desk. He preferred to work at home.

***

Hutch sat across from Starsky in the plush living room of his LA house. The room was done in various shades of white, with glass tables and sun pouring in from wall-length windows and large skylights. Starsky almost felt as though he were outside, especially with the jungle of plants that lined the windows. Hutch was barefoot. He wore a pair of light blue cotton pants rolled above the ankle and a white tunic with colorful embroidery around the V neck. When Starsky arrived, Hutch had been playing his guitar and singing a song in Spanish that made both Starsky’s heart and his cock leap in reaction. Hutch’s soft, sultry voice rolling the rich foreign syllables off his tongue did incredible things to Starsky’s libido.

Now, as Hutch looked over the photo spread, a line formed between his eyes and a slight frown played over his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Starsky asked, leaning forward. “You unhappy with any of the photos?” Starsky personally thought they were fantastic.

Hutch shook his head slowly. “No. You made me look good.” His clear blue eyes lifted from the photographs to meet Starsky’s gaze. “I guess I’m just not used to this level of exposure.”

Starsky laughed. “This is hardly what you’d call exposure. You playing your guitar, laughing with friends, talking to associates…it’s not like I took photos of you in the nude or on the can.”

Hutch managed a soft smile and sighed, leaning back on the white sofa. “I know.” He ran a hand through his white-blond hair. “You did a really good job.” He rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “The interview was great.”

“Hey, you look so tired,” Starsky said, concerned. “I thought you were taking it easy.”

“I’ve had a few obligations to take care of,” Hutch admitted. “I’m fine.” He looked at Starsky thoughtfully. “Thanks for keeping Nikandros out of this.”

“Nikandros?” Starsky asked, puzzled.

“My boyfriend,” Hutch clarified. “I know it would’ve made a huge story and must’ve been pretty tempting.”

Starsky bristled. “I told you I wouldn’t print it.”

“I know, and I believed you. I just wanted to thank you again for agreeing.”

Starsky frowned and began gathering up the photos. “I hope you know my word is good. You didn’t have to try to bribe me.”

Hutch’s back stiffened. “Bribe you? What are you talking about?”

“Shag came to my place offering me a check for my silence. I told him where he could stick it.”

“What?” Hutch stood up, anger flashing in his eyes. “I never told him to do that! What the _fuck_? I told Shag that I trusted you and not to worry about it!”

Hutch’s switch from calm and quiet to irate and raging was enough to cool Starsky down. He lifted his hands in a placating manner. “It’s okay. I had my doubts you had anything to do with it. Now I know I was right.” Starsky picked up his briefcase. He saw that Hutch was pressing his hand to his head. “You okay?”

“Migraine,” Hutch said through clenched teeth. Nearby, a door closed and a moment later the dark-skinned man Starsky had seen in Hutch’s hotel suite appeared. _Nikandros._

“Hriso mou,” the man said softly, immediately crossing to Hutch and putting his hands on his shoulders. “Are you feeling ill?”

The man was striking in white linen trousers and an open navy shirt, his longish hair so black it almost appeared blue.

“Just my head again,” Hutch said softly. Nikandros pulled him close, murmuring something softly into his ear. Starsky felt like an intruder and moved toward the door.

Hutch rallied enough to remember his manners. “Nikandros, this is David Starsky. He’s finished the issue for the magazine.”

Nikandros leaned across the glass coffee table and shook Starsky’s hand. “Very nice to meet you.” His accent was thick, and his dark eyes told Starsky that he remembered him from the night in the hotel when they’d passed one another by the elevators. The look was calculating, possessive, and protective all at once. Hutch emitted a soft moan, and Nikandros tightened his hold on him. “Mr. Starsky, would you mind helping me get Kenneth to his bed? When these headaches come on, they are debilitating.”

Hutch looked like he wanted to object but was in too much pain to put forth the effort.

“Of course.” Starsky set down his briefcase and went to support Hutch from the other side. The three men made their way up the long staircase to the upper floor, Hutch complaining all the way that he could walk unaided until he stumbled, forcing the two men to take on more of his weight.  On the landing Nikandros threw open a door, revealing a beautiful room decorated in various hues of blue. “Take him to the bed,” he instructed Starsky as he moved to close the heavy drapes. “He needs complete darkness.”

“I’m all right,” Hutch mumbled through clenched teeth.

“Sure y’are.” Starsky said quietly. “But why don’t you lie down for a bit?” He helped him onto the large bed while Nikandros disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with some pills and a glass of water. Gently, he lifted Hutch’s head and helped him to take the medication and drink. “Rest now, agapi mou.”

Once in the hallway, Nikandros escorted Starsky downstairs and outside. “He will be very embarrassed to know you saw him like this,” he told Starsky. “He has much pride.”

“I hope he considers me friend enough not to care too much,” Starsky told him, looking into the man’s soft doe eyes. There was no denying Nikandros was very handsome, and his accent only accentuated the sexual vibe that drifted off him in waves. “Tell Hutch the issue will be out the beginning of next month.”

“I will,” Nikandros smiled. “Kenneth has much faith in you—he told me you would not print anything about our relationship.”

“And I won’t,” Starsky assured him. “It’s nobody’s business but your own.” He shook the man’s hand again and walked to his car, tossing his briefcase into the backseat. On the drive home, he couldn’t help but remember how it felt to hold Hutch against him, his body hard yet yielding, before he’d helped him into bed.

***

A week after _Pulse_ hit the stands, Starsky got a call from Shag’s secretary inviting him and a date to a weekend party at Hutch’s LA home to celebrate the positive public response.  Although his feelings for Rosey were cooling, Starsky hadn’t yet broken things off with her. He blamed loneliness, and the bitterness that seeing Nikandros with Hutch had awakened in him. During his time off, he’d realized that he didn’t have a heck of a lot of friends. Huggy had been busy with work, and against his better judgment, Starsky had continued to take Rosey out to eat and to the movies, and he continued to take her to bed. It disturbed him that he tended to keep his eyes closed during sex with her, and more than once he’d caught himself thinking about Hutch in order to bring himself over the edge.

He’d come close to calling it quits a time or two over the past week, but the lonely nights stretching before him, combined with his guilt for continuing to lead her on, kept him quiet. At this point, he didn’t have a choice—unless he wanted to go alone to Hutch’s party, he was going to have to ask Rosey to go with him.

When they drove up to the secluded beach-front home and got past the gate, Rosey looked at it in awe. “Oh my God, Dave, it’s beautiful!”

Starsky got out of the car and went around and opened the passenger door for her. “Yep, it’s something else.”

“I can’t wait to meet Ken Hutchinson. I love his music,” Rosey said, not for the first time.

“He’s very nice,” Starsky told her, handing their bags to the hired help. They approached the house, where the French doors stood open, people spilling out onto the shaded patio. Rosey continued to look around with wide eyes. She wore a simple, yet elegant white sundress, her body slim and girlish. Starsky immediately caught sight of Hutch’s blond hair and watched him as he mingled with his guests, drinking in his lithe form and graceful movements. When Hutch caught sight of them, he immediately left the group he’d been talking to and came over. His white shirt  was open to mid-way and the green linen slacks he wore hugged his thighs. Starsky felt all his blood rushing to his nether regions.

“Starsky!” Hutch wrapped an arm around his shoulder and hugged him to him. “I’m so glad you could make it. You’re the man of the hour.”

“I am?” Starsky asked, surprised. “How’s that?”

Hutch laughed, pulling him closer. “Your terrific spread on me in _Pulse_! It’s doing wonders for my sagging image. Totally wiped out the damage Vanessa had done. Now, who is this lovely lady?”

He took Rosey’s hand, and she blushed crimson.

“Oh, sorry. Ken Hutchinson, this is Rosey Malone.”

“The special lady in your life, I take it.” Hutch leaned in and kissed Rosey’s cheek.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Rosey said, smiling.

“Would you like a drink?” Hutch waved over a waiter carrying glasses of champagne. “We have a bar if you’d rather have something else.”

“Champagne’s fine,” Starsky said, reaching for two glasses and passing one to Rosey.

One of Hutch’s band members called him over, and Hutch excused himself.

“He’s so handsome!” Rosey gushed, and Starsky nodded just as enthusiastically before catching himself. “A great guy all around,” he said a little hoarsely and took a sip of champagne. Shag Simpson approached dressed in tight bell-bottomed jeans and a V-neck shirt. A half-dozen gold necklaces adorned his chest.

“Dave!” he put a hand on his shoulder, which Starsky managed to shrug off without appearing too rude. Shag noticed. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry about before. Hutch laid into me about it, but you gotta understand. In this business it’s here today, gone tomorrow. And Hutch is far too trusting. I just wanted to make sure, you know?”

Starsky nodded. “Forget it.”

“Good deal!” Shag slapped his back and headed for the bar.

“What was that all about?” Rosey asked.

“Just a misunderstanding we had,” Starsky replied, taking her hand and guiding her through the crowd into the house. Looking around, Starsky recognized a few people from the tour. He didn’t see Nikandros, and wondered if he would even be there. Hutch probably went to great lengths to keep their relationship a secret. Something resembling jealousy coiled in Starsky’s gut, and he reprimanded himself. He had no rights to Ken Hutchinson.

Rosey gripped his hand. “This is a beautiful room,” she breathed, admiring the sky lights and white furniture. Another waiter came through with shrimp cocktails, and Starsky took one for them to share. They wandered out onto the veranda. Several people were swimming, the ladies in skimpy bikinis with gold and diamond jewelry shining in the bright sun. A few of the men wore the type of bikini briefs that Starsky owned, and others wore more conservative swim shorts. He led Rosey over to a shaded table where he recognized a few of Hutch’s entourage. He made introductions and waited until Rosey was deep in a conversation with another woman before excusing himself for the bathroom.

“They’ve taken your bags upstairs,” Hutch told him as he passed by. “You know where my room is—yours in next door.”

Starsky smiled his thanks and went up the stairs, knowing there were a couple of bathrooms there.

He found one down the hall. When he was finished, he decided to detour into the bedroom to switch his slacks for his swimsuit and some shorts he could easily remove by the pool. The room chosen for him and Rosey was decorated in browns and sand tones, with some green accents. It had a sliding door leading out to a balcony parallel with the one attached to Hutch’s bedroom. Looking out, miles of white beach and the blue Pacific Ocean could be seen past the pool and property beyond.

Starsky spotted Rosey still seated at the table talking to the woman beside her. Looking over the property, he saw various people playing croquet out on the lawn; others seated on lounge chairs under the palm trees; and still others headed out to the beach, a few with surf boards under their arms.

Starsky turned and shed his slacks, pulling on his speedo and the navy shorts he’d packed, which had already been put in a drawer with his other clothes. Rosey’s things hung in the closet, along with his other pair of pants and suit jacket. He hadn’t been at all sure what to pack, and Rosey had told him he hadn’t packed enough. Closing the bedroom door behind him, Starsky headed back downstairs.

The next few hours were spent swimming, eating, and lounging around. Rosey began to get pink on her shoulders and excused herself to go upstairs and change. The sun dipped in the sky, and Starsky slipped his sandals on, heading for a short walk, wanting to get away from people for a while. He was surprised to find Hutch walking out on the beach.

“I thought you’d be inside with all your admirers,” Starsky said with a grin.

Hutch shook his head, picking up a shell and turning it with his long fingers. He looked out at the ocean, squinting a little into the setting sun. “They don’t really want to talk to me,” he said. “They just want to talk _at_ me.” He looked at Starsky, who nodded. They began to walk together, the wind off the ocean tugging at their clothes. Sand crabs scurried away from their feet.

“Nikandros isn’t here?” Starsky asked after a moment.

“No,” Hutch replied. “Too dangerous.”

“That must be difficult,” Starsky said. “Having to hide from everyone.”

“It can be. Nik sometimes doesn’t understand. He may come tomorrow when it’s only my more intimate friends left.”

“How long have you been together?” Starsky asked.

“Six months. I met him just after my divorce.” Hutch sighed. “I really tried to love Vanessa. To be what the world expects of me. But I couldn’t, and it had to stop. Vanessa is very bitter about it, but that’s understandable.”

“And that’s why you wouldn’t say anything negative about her to the press,” Starsky guessed.

Hutch smiled and changed the subject. “Rosey seems to be a nice girl. I got a chance to talk to her some more after lunch. She’s very sweet and seems smart, too.”

Starsky nodded, unsure of what to say. Everything Hutch said about her was true, but he couldn’t bring himself to muster up much enthusiasm for his girlfriend. He wondered if he shouldn’t have brought her with him, but his feelings of guilt and obligation had won out. To his surprise, he found himself telling Hutch about it.

“How long have you felt this way?” Hutch asked when Starsky had finished.

Starsky thought about it. “Since the tour,” he said. He knew he didn’t have to dig too deep to figure out why that was.

“To tell the truth, I find myself wanting to break up with her,” Starsky continued. “and the longer I put it off, the more obligated I feel to stay with her.”

“I’m sorry,” Hutch said. They’d found a place by some dunes that sheltered them from the relentless ocean breeze, and sat down, heedless of the sand against their backs. It was quieter there and easier to continue their conversation.

“Don’t be,” Starsky said. “She’s devoted to her father, and I hate to say it, but it’s a little weird at her age. We wouldn’t have gone far together. But I’ve found myself at a point in my life where I’ve worked so long and hard that I find myself without many close friends or family around me. And Rosey’s been real accessible, you know?”

“Ready to fill your emotional and physical needs,” Hutch guessed, his blue eyes understanding.

Starsky nodded. “And it makes me feel like such a shit, continuing to use her this way. I don’t think she has a clue.”

Hutch looked out over the ocean.

“You must think I’m such a bastard,” Starsky said after a moment.

Hutch looked at him, surprised. “No! Not at all. I think it’s just human nature. In fact, I’m a little guilty of doing the same thing.” Leaning back on his elbow, Hutch picked a piece of sea grass and put it between his teeth.

“With Nikandros?” Starsky asked, frowning. “You mean you aren’t serious about him?”

“No,” Hutch replied. “But I’m pretty sure he is about me. I can’t give him what he wants—not now, anyway. It would be kinder to let him go, but instead I hold on. It means so much to have someone here when I come home, someone to talk to, someone warming my bed.” He fell silent a moment before adding, “This is the second time I find myself being less than truthful in a relationship.”

Starsky watched the wind whipping Hutch’s blond hair into his face. He wanted to reach out and push it out of those blue eyes, and he nearly did before he stopped himself.

“I guess I should get back,” Hutch said after a moment, rising to his feet. “It is my party, after all, although I doubt anyone has missed me.”

“I’m sure they have,” Starsky said when he’d stood up beside him. They began to walk back toward the mansion. A sea gull made a dive in front of them, catching up a little ghost crab before it could duck into its hole.

“Damn,” Hutch said. “He almost made it. I know it’s nature, but I always feel badly for the little crabs.” He said it so wistfully that Starsky felt a pang in his heart for him—like Hutch could somehow relate to the ghost crab—like perhaps he was a ghost himself in this world, always on the lookout for predators. On impulse, Starsky reached out and squeezed Hutch’s hand, giving him a small smile. Hutch looked at him, the initial surprise in his eyes turning to gratitude and maybe a hint of something else. He squeezed back, and they parted as they entered Hutch’s property once again.

That night after dinner, there was a stir and some pleading for Hutch and his band to perform.  They agreed to play a few songs in the rehearsal room, where about twenty of the remaining guests gathered to listen. Riveted by Hutch’s performance, Starsky didn’t at first realize that Rosey was talking to him.

“Huh? Oh, what did you say?” He leaned closer to hear over the final strains of the love ballad.

“I said I’m really tired. I’m going up to bed---but you stay up as long as you want.”

Starsky smiled absentmindedly and kissed her goodnight, watching her go before turning back to watch.

Hutch sat at the grand piano, his guitarist and drummer nearby. Double doors opened out onto a side patio where some of the guests sat enjoying drinks in the moonlight. Beyond their heads, Starsky could see small dots of light out on the dark ocean.

Hutch’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his feet bare on the pedals. Starsky stood where he had a good view of Hutch’s hands moving over the piano keys, and the ever-changing expressions on his face as he sang.

_When I was young_   
_I never needed anyone_   
_And makin' love was just for fun_   
_Those days are gone_

_Livin' alone_   
_I think of all the friends I've known_  
 _But when I dial the telephone_  
 _Nobody's home_

 _All by myself_   
_Don't wanna be, all by myself anymore_  
 _All by myself_  
 _Don't wanna live, all by myself… anymore_

A shiver ran through Starsky. Watching Hutch’s long fingers touch the keys, he was unable to stop himself from wondering what it would feel like to have those fingers on his body.

 _Hard to be sure_   
_Sometimes I feel so insecure_  
 _And love so distant and obscure_  
 _Remains the cure_

 _All by myself_   
_Don't wanna be, all by myself anymore_  
 _All by myself_  
 _Don't wanna live, all by myself anymore_  
  
 _When I was young_  
 _I never needed anyone_  
 _And makin' love was just for fun_  
 _Those days are gone_  
  
 _All by myself_  
 _Don't wanna be, all by myself anymore_  
 _All by myself_  
 _Don't wanna live, all by myself anymore_

Hutch’s eyes found Starsky’s and held them as he sang.

  
_All by myself_   
_Don't wanna be, all by myself anymore_   
_All by myself_   
_Don't wanna live, all by myself anymore_

Starsky knew then what was going to happen. He couldn’t stop it if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to. Breaking their eye contact, he turned and left the room, hearing Hutch announce he would sing one more song. He climbed the stairs and peeked into his room. Rosey slept peacefully, a warm breeze blowing in from the balcony.

He moved up the hall, entering Hutch’s suite and closing the door behind him.

***

When Hutch finally managed to get away from the piano, he claimed a headache and headed for his bedroom. He hoped he hadn’t misread Starsky—could the man actually be interested? He had felt certain he was straight, yet he’d been getting a distinct vibe off him all afternoon.

He opened the door to his suite, which was still dark. His eyes scanned the room, seeing no one. His heart fell. It had been stupid of him to think it—that a look could be so telling. He had obviously imagined something passing between them, and now Starsky was in his own room, in bed with his girlfriend.

It wasn’t as though Hutch took any of this lightly, he mused as he began to undress for bed. He was still involved with Nikandros, and he had never cheated on a lover before. He suspected that even though Starsky had told him he was unhappy with Rosey, he felt much the same way. That is, if Starsky had even considered cheating on her with him. Hutch sighed and slipped out of his pants, tossing them to the corner of the room where he’d already discarded his shirt.

Nude, he turned down the bed and went to stand at the doors to the balcony. A movement in the shadows made him jerk back.

“Hey,” Starsky said quietly, rising from the chair and coming toward him.

“Hey, yourself,” Hutch answered, his heart beating fast, its tempo increasing the closer Starsky got to him. “I didn’t know you were out here,” he said.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Starsky answered, now only inches away. Hutch caught the faint scent of sandalwood drifting off him and swallowed with difficulty.

“One of us is clearly either very underdressed or very overdressed,” he told him hoarsely.

In one smooth motion, Starsky yanked his shirt up and off, throwing it over his shoulder where it fell to the yard below. He looked behind him. “Oops. Hope that didn’t land on anyone’s head.”

“Good thing it wasn’t your shoe,” Hutch closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Starsky’s waist, his fingers moving over the smooth skin there before continuing up to touch back and shoulders. Starsky grunted once before devouring Hutch’s mouth, pushing it open with his tongue, his hands gripping Hutch’s hair.

Hutch pulled in a long breath through his nose, every fiber of his body tingling with desire, still reeling from the fact that Starsky was there at all. The darker man’s strong magnetism drew Hutch like a moth to flame, and he was lost—clinging to Starsky, touching him everywhere he could reach. He opened his mouth and took in the hot tongue, sucking it like candy while Starsky’s hard cock seared Hutch’s thigh.

Starsky was lost in sensation. He couldn’t believe it was happening. He let out a low hum as Hutch kissed him over and over again, Hutch’s lips savoring his like rare wine, his tongue lapping at Starsky’s lips when it wasn’t held captive by Starsky’s own persistent mouth. Starsky was harder than granite, wanting Hutch more than he’d ever wanted anyone in his life, man or woman. He’d sat out on the balcony, trying to convince himself to leave before it was too late, but it was as if his feet were made of concrete. Now, after having seen Hutch standing before him like a nude god, tasted Hutch’s beautiful mouth, and pressed his palms against his delectable, bare ass, all thoughts of guilt or leaving fled. All he knew was silky hair; soft skin; strong muscle; warm, wet mouth, and hot, smooth cock. He ravaged Hutch’s mouth, tasting every part of it. Hutch’s hands moved over Starsky’s ass, clenching and kneading, until Starsky found himself helplessly humping Hutch’s leg like a dog in heat. He moved forward, pushing Hutch further into the room and onto the bed. He reached for the slacks he’d changed into for dinner and unbuttoned them, helping Hutch to push them down his legs and off onto the floor.

Starsky leaned down and their cocks touched, sending sparks through Starsky’s limbs. Hutch pulled his mouth away, moaning, “I want you,” his breath a hot breeze on Starsky’s ear. “God, I want you.” Starsky answered with a groan of need, dipping his head to suck Hutch’s nipple between his lips, nibbling it gently between his front teeth, feeling Hutch surge upward at the touch.  He flicked it with his tongue and Hutch let out a cry of passion that set Starsky on fire. Hutch pulled Starsky’s face up to meet his and took his mouth again in a filthy kiss full of decadent promise. Starsky felt long legs wrapping around his waist and pressed forward, lewdly fucking Hutch’s mouth with his tongue in a parody of what he desperately wanted to do to him. He pulled Hutch’s arms back, taking hold of his wrists and pressing them into the mattress as his mouth moved down the long neck, tasting sun and wind and sweat.

“Wanna fuck you so bad,” he growled into Hutch’s throat before sucking on his Adam’s apple.

“I want you to,” Hutch said breathlessly, chest heaving. “Do it. Lube’s in the drawer.”

Breathing hard, Starsky leaned up and reached for the handle, nearly pulling the drawer entirely out of the nightstand in his haste. With shaking hands, he squeezed some of the lubrication onto his fingers. Reaching between Hutch’s open legs, Starsky carefully inserted a finger, watching Hutch’s face glaze over as he began moving it in and out of his tight ring. Hutch let out a series of short cries that made Starsky’s balls tingle in anticipation.

“I’m okay…just do it,” Hutch breathed, and Starsky positioned himself, slipping inside of Hutch in one swift move that took both their breaths away for a long, suspended moment before Starsky was finally able to move. With twisting stabs, he fucked Hutch, pushing deep inside of him, watching his eyes roll back in his head and his mouth drop open in pleasure.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I met you,” Starsky confessed through ragged exhalations as he knelt there at the altar of his desire, stubbornly pushing away the inner voice telling him that this was so, so much more than crazed passion, need, and want. That this was what life was built on. And suddenly he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else touching Hutch this way. He wanted to make him promise that no one else would, but he knew he hadn’t the right. “Hutch,” he tried to put his feelings into words, but couldn’t. Instead, he stared down into eyes as blue as a morning sky and tried to convey his feelings as Hutch’s body rose to meet his on each thrust. Waves of pleasure lapped at him, moving up his legs and torso, growing in size and intensity until they threatened to wash over him. Reaching between their sweat-covered bodies, Starsky took hold of Hutch’s turgid cock and stroked it, eliciting more cries of pleasure from the blond god he held skewered beneath him. He bent and kissed the beautiful lips, pressing his forehead to Hutch’s and closing his eyes as a tsunami of sensation overtook them both, making them shake, their cries mingling and becoming louder. Starsky blinked, opening his eyes to find Hutch’s staring into them, and Starsky was lost—the gigantic wave of pleasure crashing over and drowning him, Hutch being consumed a moment later, rolling after him into the depths, warm and trembling. Exhausted.

They slept.

***

The following day, Starsky ate breakfast with Rosey in their room. She said she had a headache and barely ate anything.

“You want me to take you home, honey?” he asked her.

“I-I don’t want to ruin your good time. I’ll ask Stella, the woman I became so friendly with yesterday, for a ride. She told me yesterday they were leaving late this morning.”

“Are you sure?” Starsky frowned. “I don’t want to stay without you. I can take you home.”

“Please, David,” Rosey said a little sharply. “Don’t make me feel worse by cutting your weekend short. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of fun without me.”

Starsky didn’t argue with her anymore. He didn’t want to leave, and since he’d made up his mind that he was going to end things with Rosey, he didn’t see a point in forcing the issue. He couldn’t very well break it off with her while driving her home with a sick headache. He’d have dinner with her one night this week and explain to her that it just wasn’t working. If the odd looks Rosey had given him the day before and her barely concealed discomfort that morning were any indication, it probably wasn’t going to come as that big of a surprise. He’d definitely gotten the idea that she knew things were cooling between them. He hated that, but he hadn’t been able to disguise the way the mere presence of Ken Hutchinson took all of his attention.

While she went to find Stella, Starsky walked out onto the balcony of their room, his eyes unable to keep from roaming next door, where he’d left Hutch sleeping before daylight, carefully untangling himself from the long, tanned limbs that wrapped around him. As much as he hated cutting out on him like that, he couldn’t very well sleep with him until morning, leaving Rosey to wake up alone in their room.

He heard the door open and turned around.

“Bad news—she’s already gone,” Rosey informed him almost coldly, her hand pressed to her head.

“Okay, that settles it, then.” Starsky pulled their suitcases out of the closet and began packing them. Rosey didn’t protest, just slowly went about gathering her things together.

On their way out, Starsky asked one of the hired help if Mr. Hutchinson was up yet and was told that he was in the shower.

“Would you please let him know that Dave Starsky and his guest left due to illness? I’ll give him a call later.” Starsky escorted Rosey out to the car, heaving their bags into the trunk. He hated to leave, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

On his way down the long driveway, a silver Mercedes passed coming up. He recognized the driver immediately—Nikandros. Jealousy, thick and vile strangled Starsky, and he found himself white-knuckling the steering wheel. Rosey gave him an indecipherable look before turning her head to the window. As they passed through the gates, she said, “I heard you, you know.”

Starsky had been remembering how it felt to be buried inside of Hutch, and he barely digested the words. “Hm? Heard me what?”

“I heard you with Hutch in the next room. The balcony doors were open, and I could hear you in bed with him.”

Starsky jolted, his eyes moving toward her, but Rosey still stared out the window.

“I’m…I’m sorry, Rosey,” Starsky said, but Rosey remained silent. When they were almost to the beach house that she shared with her father, she turned in the seat so she could see him.

“I could see, Dave, that you have feelings for him. When I saw you together, yesterday. It was pretty obvious.”

Starsky was surprised. He hadn’t realized he’d been that transparent. He looked over at Rosey, not sure what to say, and had to pull his attention back to the road.

He pulled up in front of the cottage and got out to remove her bag. She waited by the car.

“I don’t know what to say, Rosey,” he told her when he’d set her bag at her feet. “I didn’t plan for this to happen, but it would’ve been fairer to you if I’d broken things off between us when I returned from the tour.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “I really wish you had. Goodbye, Dave.” She turned away from him, and picking up her bag, she walked to the house without giving him another look. Starsky felt guilty, but also relieved. He got back into the car and drove home.

~~~O~~~

Starsky sat up in bed, cradling the phone on his bare shoulder.

“Sorry I’m calling so late,” Hutch’s voice sounded in his ear, causing goose bumps to rise on his flesh. “I had to wait for the last of the guests to leave, and then I had to have a talk with Nikandros.”

Starsky’s heart rate doubled. “Yeah?” He said, wondering what he had to talk to him about but not wanting to ask.

“Of course,” Hutch told him. “I couldn’t go on with him after what happened between us.”

Happiness bloomed in Starsky’s chest, and he had to take a couple of deep breaths before he could speak. Of course Hutch would handle things this way---Starsky knew what kind of man he was. But he hadn’t dared to hope… “How’d he take it?”

“Not very well,” Hutch admitted. “Things got pretty nasty. It triggered one of my headaches, and I’ve taken something for it, so if I fade out on you, that’s why.”

“Hutch, I-I can’t believe you’ve done this for me.”

“What do you mean? Of course, I did. I don’t do one-night-stands.” Hutch was silent for a moment, and Starsky felt his mood change. “But maybe you do?” Hutch suggested quietly.

“No!” Starsky almost shouted. God, the last thing he wanted was for Hutch to think _that_! Fuck. “No, Hutch. I just can’t believe you ended a six month relationship for me. And I wish I could say that I’d ended my relationship with Rosey, although I’d planned to. She ended it first.”

“She did?” Hutch asked. “Why?”

“She heard us last night.” Starsky could hear Hutch’s indrawn breath. “I know. Awful. I felt like a real heel. Our balcony doors were both open, and I guess she woke up…oh, but don’t worry; she won’t tell anyone. She isn’t a vindictive person. But what about Nikandros? Will he tell the press?”

“I hope not, but I can’t live my life worrying about it,” Hutch told him. “I want to be happy. I want to see you again.”

“I want that, too,” Starsky said quietly. “I wish you were here.”

“I don’t suppose you could come here?”

“I have to work tomorrow,” Starsky said wistfully. “and you sound like you’re fading. My ego wouldn’t be able to take the blow if you fell asleep while I was making love to you.”

Hutch chuckled. “Not a chance of that happening. Maybe this weekend?”

“It’s a date.” Starsky grinned in the darkness.

“Okay, then. I guess I’ll go to bed. Alone.”

Starsky pictured Hutch, completely naked on his silk sheets. He groaned. “Maybe I can call in sick…”

And that’s how he found himself in Hutch’s living room an hour later, pressing the singer up against the wall with his body, his hand palming Hutch’s cock through thin pajama pants.

“I sent the servants home,” Hutch murmured into his mouth. “Nobody here but the two of us.”

“That’s perfect for what I have in mind.” Starsky dropped to his knees, peeling down Hutch’s pants and worshipping his cock with his mouth. Hutch breathed hard, making noises that threatened to have Starsky creaming his pants in a matter of minutes.

Starsky couldn’t get enough of Hutch’s cock in his mouth. He sucked and licked, tracing the head with his tongue and tasting the pre-cum that dribbled out when Starsky gently kneaded Hutch’s sac with his hand.

“Oh, my God! Oh, holy…” Hutch’s fingers threaded through Starsky’s hair, alternately stroking and tugging at the dark curls. Starsky looked up to see Hutch with his head thrown back against the wall, his bare neck tantalizing in the moonlight shining through the window. Starsky reached down and undid his own jeans, freeing his steely hardness from the confines of his underwear and stropping it as he made of feast of Hutch’s cock, running his tongue up the shaft before sucking the head, listening to Hutch’s moans fill the air around him. The sounds were so low and laden with sex that, combined with the taste of Hutch in his mouth, they sent Starsky over the edge. As he jerked through his climax, Hutch stiffened, spurting cum down Starsky’s throat.

When he could move again, Hutch reached down and pulled Starsky up by the arm, wrapping himself around him and holding him tight. “Holy shit,” he whispered in his ear.

“You can say that again,” Starsky breathed, a shiver running though his body.

“Holy shit,” Hutch repeated, and the two of them began to giggle helplessly, trying to remain standing on legs that had turned to noodles. Losing the battle, they slid to the floor, only to find themselves kissing languidly for a long time.

“I can’t get enough of you,” Starsky said into Hutch’s mouth.

“Same here.” They separated and lay staring at the shadows on the ceiling.

“How about a swim?” Hutch suggested after a while, and Starsky propped up on an elbow, his eyebrow arching.

“Now? This is a funny time for you to want to take a dip.”

“A skinny dip,” Hutch clarified, pushing a stray curl out of Starsky’s face with his finger.

“Oh, well, I guess I could go for that,” Starsky’s grin was large in the darkness.

Helping one another up, they stripped off the remainder of their clothes and headed outside where the water shown silver in the moonlight. Hutch slipped in over the edge first, Starsky following. They swam a bit, enjoying the feel of the cool water on their naked bodies and the sight of the blanket of stars above them, before settling at the edge, each with an arm crooked over the side of the pool. Hutch leaned in and ran his tongue over Starsky’s lips. Starsky chased it with his own tongue, and soon they were wrapped around one another, wet and slippery. Hutch couldn’t stop running his hands over Starsky’s body, so tight and firm--sleek and silky in the water. The muscular planes of his back seemed made for Hutch’s hands. He circled around, running his fingers over the hairy chest, slowly trailing down to the patch surrounding his thick phallus and tugging on it gently. This elicited small grunts of enjoyment from Starsky, which Hutch swallowed with his kisses. After a moment, he turned his back to Starsky and folded his arms on the side of the pool. Giving Starsky the best come-hither look he could muster in his high state of arousal, he spread his legs invitingly and waited. He saw Starsky swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and then he was behind Hutch, his hands smoothing over Hutch’s skin, his breath hot on his neck.

Hutch could feel Starsky’s cock nudging at his crack, and he pushed back, signaling his eagerness for penetration. Starsky’s hands came around him, stroking his smooth chest and stomach before fondling lower, eliciting a growl of excitement from Hutch’s lips. Dizzy with sensation, Hutch shivered when Starsky entered him. Hard pants escaped his mouth, and a small portion of his brain wondered exactly what made this so much better, so much more special, than what he’d shared with Nikandros—even at the very beginning of their relationship. He wanted to tell Starsky this, but couldn’t find the words, his lips only forming moans of pleasure as he accepted his lover fully inside his body. The stretch was unbearably perfect. He could feel Starsky trembling against him, overcome, yet still cognizant enough to remember to give Hutch pleasure with his hands.

The water lapped around them as Starsky moved forward and back, Hutch meeting him each time, the sensations growing so that he couldn’t think—could only feel. He leaned his head back, resting it on Starsky’s shoulder, and felt Starsky’s mouth latch onto his neck, sucking and licking its way up to Hutch’s ear. Hutch’s climax took him by surprise, hitting so hard that he called out, the sound reverberating around the pool area. Starsky cursed brokenly and increased his pace, becoming sloppy in his thrusting until he stiffened, emitting a long, low groan, so charged with heat that Hutch thought he would hear in his head for the rest of his life.

Afterward, Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in his arms, suddenly overcome with emotion. He felt Starsky slip out of him and move away slightly to the right, recovering.

Later, after they’d crawled into Hutch’s large bed, Hutch watched Starsky sleep and wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. He’d really thought Starsky was straight—he’d taken a huge chance flirting with him. But it had been worth it. Hutch reached across the space between them and touched a finger to Starsky’s hand, smoothing it over the top, his eyes still pinned to his lover’s face—the long dark lashes sweeping over tanned cheeks, the strong nose and sexy bow-shaped mouth. The rising sun peeked through the draperies, and Hutch still hadn’t gotten any sleep. He was exhausted. His earlier headache had disappeared with this first orgasm, though, and he felt wonderful. Watching Starsky, his eyes soon fluttered shut. One breath, two…and then the shrill ringing of the phone jolted him fully awake.

Snatching it off the bedside table, he whispered a hoarse hello.

“Ken.”

“Vanessa?” Hutch sat up in bed. He looked at the clock—6:30.

“You have really made a fool of me this time,” Vanessa spat. “That lover of yours that you couldn’t wait to hop into bed with is talking. He’s outed you, Ken, and now I’m known as the actress who was married to a queer.”

“Wait a minute, Van,” Hutch said as a chill ran through him at her words. He felt Starsky stir beside him. “Are you saying that Nikandros has spoken to the media?”

“Oh, there were plenty of media there. He showed up at the premiere of my new film last night on the arm of one of my co-stars! He told anyone who would listen that you’ve dumped him for some journalist for _Pulse_ magazine. Is this true, Ken?” The raw chill in Vanessa’s voice seemed to blow through the phone and pervade the room.

Hutch swallowed with difficulty. “Holy shit, I can’t believe it.”

“That’s not an answer. You owe me an answer!” Vanessa screeched so loudly, Hutch had to pull the receiver away from his ear.

“I broke up with him, yes,” Hutch said, unwilling to say anything at all about Starsky.

“Well, I hope you’re happy. Not only have you made me look like a fool, you’ve more than likely ruined your career.” She disconnected, and Hutch put the phone on its cradle.

Starsky had caught bits and pieces of what the irate woman had said, and he could see that Hutch was stunned. He rose up on an elbow and asked quietly, “Trouble?”

Hutch looked over at him. “You could say that.” He pressed his lips together and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. “Shit, Starsky, I hope this doesn’t screw things up for you.”

Starsky sat up, immediately concerned about the look of anguish on Hutch’s face. “You let me worry about that. Tell me what’s happened.”

“Nikandros. He went to the premiere of my ex-wife’s film last night and told everyone I’d left him for another man.” His clear blue eyes pierced Starsky’s. “A journalist at _Pulse_.”

Starsky couldn’t hold back a wince when a vision of Dobey hearing the news flashed before him.

Hutch threw back the covers and got out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom and leaving Starsky staring at the door. Starsky glanced at the bedside clock. It was early, but Dobey had probably gotten a whiff of the news already and gone to the office. Starsky had planned to call in sick at eight. With a sigh, he reached for the phone and dialed his boss, immediately connecting with him and receiving an earful.

“…Not to mention the fact that I didn’t even know you were gay!” Dobey yelled as an afterthought.

“I’m technically bi-sexual, and it’s not something I go around telling everybody,” Starsky replied with more calm than he felt. The entire conversation was surreal. He wondered if Hutch was purposely staying in the bathroom for the duration of this phone call.

“The last thing I expected was to find out you’re involved with a pop star!” Dobey growled.

“It wasn’t exactly something I planned, and someone Hutch knows leaked the information. Don’t you think we should be concentrating on how to handle this? Am I fired?”

“Of course you’re not fired,” Dobey muttered begrudgingly, “but I want everything—these reporters only have bits and pieces of information. You’re giving the scoop to _Pulse._ ”

“And if I don’t?” Starsky asked, although he knew the answer.

“If you don’t, then you _are_ fired!” Dobey yelled. “I expect to see you bright and early tomorrow morning with what I need.” He hung up just as Starsky heard another phone ringing. He got out of bed and went to use the shower in the bathroom of the suite next door. When he returned, Hutch was seated on the bed, freshly dressed and his hair damp.

“I got a call from the guard at the gate. The paparazzi are swarming the place.” Hutch’s face looked so apologetic, Starsky felt sorry for him. He went to sit by him on the bed and took his hand in his. He wanted to say something reassuring, but what came out was, “You have a phone in your bathroom?”

Hutch smiled. “Yeah. Another line. Comes in handy sometimes. What did your boss say? I heard you talking.”

Starsky sighed. “He wants the story to run in _Pulse._ If I don’t give it to him, I’m fired.”

“I’m sorry,” Hutch closed his eyes.

“What do you want to do?” Starsky asked softly. He wasn’t at all sure what he wanted himself.

“The damage to my rep is already done,” Hutch told him slowly. “I need to call Shag. I can’t believe he’s not ringing the phone off the hook right now. We could say it’s all lies, but now everyone will be watching me. I can’t live my life like that. And I don’t want you to be fired because of it, either. Maybe we should let your magazine run the story.”

“Exactly what story? That you’re a gay man, and we’re having a fling?”

Hutch straightened, turning away from him. “Exactly that.”

Starsky was forming an objection on his lips when the doorbell rang.

Hutch got up, squaring his shoulders. “That’s got to be Shag. The guard wouldn’t have let anyone else in.” He left the room, and Starsky finished dressing. As he made up the bed, he could hear snatches of the conversation downstairs. Shag was not a happy man, and it sounded as though he was blaming Starsky for the entire thing. Starsky went into the hall and descended the stairs where he found the two men in the living room pointing and shouting. Shag swung around when Starsky entered the room.

“You! So this is what you were up to!”

“Shut up, Shag!” Hutch warned, but Starsky held up a hand.

“It’s okay, Hutch. Say what you mean,” he told Shag.

“You wanted in his pants this whole time…you wanted his money and the attention! You played on his feelings and now here you are,” he gestured out the window in the general direction of the press outside the gates, “and there _they_ are! Now we’ve got a fucking mess!”

“We’re going to give the story to _Pulse_ ,” Hutch told him.

Shag laughed mirthlessly. “Of course you are! That’s what he hoped all along! What with the exposé and now this, it’s going to be the hottest selling magazine out there!” Shag shook his head. “You’re a fool, Hutchinson. A fucking fool.”

Quickly reaching his boiling point, Starsky stepped between them, the anger coursing through his body pulling his muscles tight and sending him into fight mode. “You’d better rethink those words…”

“I’ve had enough of this!” Shag took a step away from Starsky and looked at Hutch. “I told you something like this would happen, but you wouldn’t listen! You never do! Get yourself a new publicist.” He left, slamming the door.

“Don’t listen to him,” Hutch said quietly after a moment of deafening silence. He stood in the center of the room, shoulders slightly slumped. He ran a hand through his hair. “This is in no way your fault, and I know you didn’t plan it.” He rubbed his temples with the pads of his fingers.

“Migraine?” Starsky inquired softly, and Hutch nodded.

“The beginnings of one.” He smiled a little ruefully. “Better run while you can, Starsky. Life with me is no picnic.” He wandered to the couch and sat down wearily. “I think the thing to do is to let you write your story, and I’ll get out of the country for a while. Not on tour…I’ll cancel that, although that won’t be very good for my career. I figure that’s over, anyway, though.”

Starsky wanted to reassure him that that wasn’t necessarily true, but he couldn’t, in all honesty, do that. Being gay wouldn’t bring him any new fans and would most likely get rid of a good portion of the current ones. He looked at the man sitting before him in his jeans and yellow shirt, looking so handsome with his bare feet and tousled blond hair. Starsky wanted to beg him to stay and ride it out with him, but he knew that wouldn’t be fair. Hell, he wished _he_ could run off to Europe, until the whole thing blew over, but that wasn’t an option for him. And Hutch looked absolutely exhausted.

“Maybe you really should do that,” Starsky replied instead. “I’ll take care of things at this end. I promise I’ll handle it the best way possible.”

Hutch’s blue eyes radiated sadness. “I know you will. I trust you.” He looked around, as though suddenly waking up from a deep sleep. “I’ll arrange for you to get out of here the back way.”

Starsky sat down beside him, laying his hand on the back of Hutch’s neck, squeezing it. “You sure you don’t want me to stick around? You don’t feel well, and I have the day off.”

“I’ll be okay,” Hutch assured him. “I just need to take something and lie down. I didn’t sleep so well last night.”

As Hutch said the words, he wanted to add that the reason for that was he’d spent the entire night staring at Starsky, thinking about how hard he was falling for him. Only now that he knew that Starsky considered the entire thing a ‘fling,’ he couldn’t do it. And even though he felt all kinds of fool for having left his comfortable relationship with Nikandros for something so short-lived that was costing him everything, he couldn’t bring himself to regret what had happened between them. Starsky was a good man, and Hutch had fallen for him in a big way. Even if he never felt those things again, it was worth it to have felt them once.

“When will I talk to you again?” Starsky asked, his face as full of caring as always.

“I’ll be in touch,” Hutch lied. Reaching for the phone on the table, he made a few calls and had Starsky safely out of there within the hour.

***

The following weeks were a blur for Starsky. Everywhere he went, there were reporters in his face. Everyone wanted to know about his fling with the hot sex symbol turned gay. Magazines churned out stories full of venomous quotes from Vanessa and Nikandros, who never seemed to run out of negative things to say about Hutch. Nik claimed that Hutch had screwed Starsky every night of his last tour, although he hadn’t been there to know it if he had. He disparaged Hutch’s performance in bed, although Starsky had to laugh when he read that. If nothing else, Hutch was a fabulous lover.

But Hutch was many other things, too. He was thoughtful and talented, warm and caring, intuitive and sensitive…he was everything Starsky loved in a person, and he was a man. A man whom Starsky had fallen for. A man who had left him and never called as he’d said he would. As the days turned into weeks, Starsky had to wonder if he’d imagined the feelings he’d thought Hutch had had for him. When Hutch had gone to Europe, Starsky had been certain he’d hear from him within a few days. He hurt from the rejection. He also worried about Hutch, alone somewhere with his debilitating headaches and the stress of all that had happened. And a part of him wondered if Hutch was taking on all the blame —punishing himself by secluding himself somewhere away from the world.

Starsky put together the story for _Pulse_ himself, affirming that he and Hutchinson had had a dalliance after the singer’s breakup with Nikandros Tocci. He speculated that the Greek was lying about Hutch’s infidelity out of jealousy, and that Vanessa Jameson was just being predictably vindictive with her negative comments. He had only glowing things to say about Ken Hutchinson. Although Dobey might have appreciated something a little more juicy, it was what he’d expected from Dave Starsky.

And when Starsky came into work for the fifth week in a row looking as though he’d been run over by a freight train, Dobey sent him on a two week vacation.

“And I don’t want to hear any arguments!” he yelled, before practically pushing Starsky out the door.

What he would do with two weeks free, Starsky didn’t know. As far as he was concerned, it was only more time on his hands to think about Hutch and wonder what went wrong. Being a journalist made him particularly good at remembering conversations, and he replayed their last evening together over and over again, picking it apart for a clue. It was late on the night of his first day of vacation that Starsky sat up straight in bed, his head spinning with realization.

“Shit.”

***

Starsky went to see Huggy bright and early the next day with bags packed. “You sure it’s okay with your friend if I borrow his truck?” he asked him as Huggy climbed into the passenger seat of his car.

“Yeah, he’s a real sucker for true love,” Huggy replied with a knowing grin.

“You’ve always been right about me, haven’t you?” Starsky asked, peeling away from the curb. “Well, don’t let it go to your head. You’ve been wrong about plenty of other things.”

“I’m hurt, Starsky,” Huggy replied, looking anything but. “But I’ll wish you luck in your endeavor anyway. You sure your sources are correct, and this Hutchinson fellow hasn’t left the country?”

“I’ve been on the phone all night. I’m pretty sure, Hug. I’ll fly out, meet your friend, and drive the rest of the way. You drive my car until you hear from me.”

Huggy nodded. “That I will, and don’t wait too long to call me and let me know what’s going on.”

Starsky smiled. “Your friend isn’t the only romantic, is he, Hug?”

Huggy didn’t answer but smiled.

***

Hutch wasn’t one to spend his free time on a yacht or put up in some fancy hotel suite in the French Riviera. He preferred the joy and solitude of nature, which is why when he left L.A. he’d decided not to go to Europe after all and instead rented a lakeside cabin in Maine.

Autumn touched the tips of the trees with crimson and orange, and Hutch spent every day outside fishing in the lake or just walking through the woods admiring the scenery. Every morning he got up and had his coffee sitting out on the wooden deck overlooking a lake surrounded by gorgeous autumn color. He spotted moose in the woods and watched a family of beavers build their dam. He breathed in the joy the beauty of nature never failed to bring to him, so that he wouldn’t dwell on the fact that he’d lost his career and the love of his life in one fell swoop. He stared at the autumn gold and scarlet creeping over the trees day by day until they burst over the landscape, imprinting on his mind and replacing every remnant of the memory of Starsky’s face, only to dream about the man at night. To say he was miserable was an understatement. Hutch was near despair.

If he didn’t force himself to get up every morning and eat, drink, and go about his daily activities, he’d be comatose in bed. Not a day went by that he didn’t imagine going back to L.A. Facing the music. Asking Starsky if he was even the slightest bit interested in trying to have something more than a ‘fling.’ But he was a coward. He remained in hiding, talking only to himself and an old tom cat who had taken a liking to him.

He awoke one morning near the end of the sixth week of his sojourn with the knowledge that the leaves were falling quickly and the snows would soon get heavy. He pulled on his jeans and a sweat shirt and took his coffee out onto the deck. As he listened to the quivering calls of the loons, he wondered if he should head south for the winter—perhaps Florida. He could hole up in some rental near the ocean and mourn his sorry existence there. Take the old tom cat with him for company.

He chuckled at his morose thinking, and reaching down, he stroked Tom’s sleek head. “Want me to catch you a fish today, old boy?” he asked, and the feline meowed loudly and rubbed against his legs. He was just getting up to put his mug in the sink when he heard tires on the gravel in front of the house. The entire time he’d been there, Hutch had had not one visitor. Hell, no one even knew he was there except the man who had rented him the cabin and his personal assistant, Clara.

Crossing the hall to the door, he pulled it open and stood, transfixed, watching a man get out of a blue, dusty pickup truck. A man he thought he might never see again. A man he missed terribly and was madly in love with and who threatened to force his heart to beat right out his chest that very minute.

A man who most definitely had not known where Hutch had gone to hide.

Yes, that was definitely what Hutch had been doing, he realized again with shame. Removing himself from a difficult situation and hiding away in the woods, licking his wounds like a coward. Still, what was Starsky doing there?

Starsky walked toward him, and Hutch had a brief urge to run away. Run into the woods like an idiot, or back into the house and lock the door. But in the amount of time it took him to process the idea and then realize how ridiculous it was, Starsky had crossed the distance between them and was standing in front of him.

“Hiya,” he said, as though they’d seen each other just yesterday.

“Hi,” Hutch answered, barely able to believe how ridiculous this was. He swallowed and tried for levity. “Find yourself in the neighborhood?” he asked, unable to take his eyes from Dave Starsky’s face.

Starsky laughed, a look of relief relaxing his features. “Definitely not. You’re not an easy man to track down.”

“I’m amazed that you could,” Hutch said. “Or wanted to.”

Starsky frowned. “Could I possibly come in? It’s been a long trip, and even if you’re going to send me back down the road, I need a few minutes to recuperate.”

Hutch moved aside, trancelike. “Sure.”

Starsky went into the house, looking around him at the polished wood beams and high ceilings. “Nice,” he commented.

“I like it,” Hutch told him, closing the door behind them. He led the way into the living room, and they each took a seat. “I’m…uh…really surprised to see you here,” he finally said.

“I’m sure you are,” Starsky replied. “Like I said, you’re a difficult man to track. Lucky for us there are a few romantics left in the world, including your personal assistant. Hutch,” Starsky looked at him levelly. “I waited a long time for you to call before finally admitting to myself that you weren’t going to. Then I spent some more time wondering where I’d misread the signals. That’s when it occurred to me.”

Hutch’s breath had caught and stayed in his throat for so long, he thought he was going to pass out for want of air. He gripped the arm of the chair hard. Starsky looked almost amused.

“I kept going over that morning after we woke up together. Everything had been fine until then. Of course, you got that call from your ex, and that was pretty upsetting. But still…I thought everything was all right up until Shag got there. I ran over every word we said to each other until I figured it out.”

Hutch didn’t know what to say. He still couldn’t believe Starsky was there, sitting in front of him, looking handsome and rugged, and Hutch wanted to reach out and touch him so badly…And what the hell was he talking about, anyway?

“I realized that you took me completely wrong when I asked you what we were supposed to say to the press. That we’d had a fling?”

Hutch’s face twitched despite his iron will to keep it still.

“God, Hutch.” Starsky shook his head. “That’s not what I thought we were having at all.” He looked so sincere that Hutch felt the glacier that had formed inside of him over the past several months begin to rapidly melt. Starsky got off the chair and knelt in front of him. “That’s what I thought might be the best thing to say. In fact, if you bothered to look at the issue of _Pulse_ , you saw that I did say it. But it’s not what I felt in here.” Rather than put his own hand over his heart, Starsky took Hutch’s and placed it there where he could feel it beating a mile a minute. “We were starting something special. Something beautiful. Something I wanted very much. Something I still want, if you do. Whaddya say, huh?”

Hutch gazed into the azure eyes in front of him, his heart beating so loudly in his ears he was afraid he’d heard wrong. “Y-you want to…” he stopped, still unsure.

“I want to be with you, Hutch. Hell, I want to marry you, but I don’t think they’ll let us.” He squeezed Hutch’s hand. “Don’t you get it, you big dope? I love you.”

Hutch’s eyes grew wide. He couldn’t believe it. All these weeks of anguish, certain he’d read Starsky completely wrong and he’d been a one-night-stand to him…but now, seeing the man in person, he wondered how he ever could have questioned his sincerity, however unspoken it had been in their short time together. He had felt something between them. He knew he had; he had just been too insecure to believe it, so he’d allowed himself to misconstrue things without confirmation and run away.

“I’m an idiot,” he said flatly. “An absolute idiot. I can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “I let the man I love get away.”

Starsky grinned, and Hutch wanted to kiss him, which was a good thing since that’s exactly what Starsky did next—leaned in and pressed their lips firmly together. Hutch tilted his head, opening his mouth, a feeling of such pure, unadulterated happiness filling him that he thought he might explode.

And he let him in.

_finis_


End file.
